


Frontiersman Francisco "Frankie" Morales

by frannyzooey



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Historical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frannyzooey/pseuds/frannyzooey
Summary: A series of one shots outlining your life on the frontier with Frankie Morales.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales & Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	1. An Introduction: Francisco Morales

Francisco Morales was a man who knew how to use his hands. The day that he joined your wagon train headed West, it was one of the first things you noticed about him. The loose, confident way they gripped the reins on his horse; the way they seemed so broad, the rope engulfed by them.

A soldier in another life, he was nicknamed “Catfish” by his troop, for his love of fishing and an enormous catch he wrangled out of the water one day. He still loves to fish; accompanying you to the stream when you do laundry and when it’s time to haul it out, you watch those hands wring the fabric; squeezing more water out of it than you ever could.

The back of his hands tanned deep from the sun, you follow the line up over his wrist, up to the taut skin of his forearm, exposed beneath the sleeves he rolled up. Twisting, twisting, twisting, the water drips over his skin; you have to look away after you catch yourself staring.

Those hands in action again, grabbing you firmly around the waist and pushing you towards your tent, shoving you inside. A group of thieves has ambushed you in the night and you watch him crouch next to the fire, quietly loading his shotgun.

Unparalleled in your party, his skill with the weapon is beyond anything you’ve ever seen. He sees you move the tent flap out of the corner of his eye and he quietly holds a finger to his lips, signaling you to be quiet before creeping into the shadows. His face just visible to you; the light from the fire dances across his features and his brow is a frown of concentration while he aims.

Taking down several of their party by himself, those hands pull you from your tent and inspect your body, cupping your face and tipping it up to his. His warm brown eyes, liquid by the light of the fire, gaze into yours and then he holds you close; just for a moment before remembering that it’s not proper for you to be like this; the two of you not married.

Later that night, those hands that you love skate over your skin; firm but gentle in their exploration. This is when you love those hands the most, and the man attached to them; when he uses them to draw sounds out of you that you’ve never made before, make you feel things you’ve never felt.

The hands that helped fix a wagon earlier today, that gave soft pats to the oxen while they ate, that helped you collect firewood - those hands are now between your legs, his fingers pressing into you; stroking inside, rubbing tight circles into your clit.

You're not supposed to be in this tent, not supposed to be alone with him, but you don’t care about any of that when he touches you like this. You’d cry out and let the whole camp know if he’d let you, but he covers your mouth with his other hand, muffling the sound.

Guiding himself into you, its a slight hitch in his breathing when he is all the way inside and he rests there, dropping down to his forearms, to stroke the hair back from your face. You meet his thrusts as he rocks into you and you reach for his hands; your fingers entwining as he presses them into the ground above your head.

He always wants this to last forever but he can’t; not when you feel this good, so warm and wet and tight and since he can’t come inside you, it’s a feverish scramble every time.

“Where?”, he pants, his hips grinding into yours, his thick cock stroking you deep.

“Oh god”, you cry out, rolling your hips against his, squeezing his hands tight.

“You gotta tell me or —“, he pulls out and you feel a hot splash across your hip, a deep groan from his throat as he comes.

Dipping his fingers into the milky liquid, he brings them to your mouth and you suck on them, the way you know he likes. Watching your cheeks hollow around the thick digits, he slides them out of your mouth and repeats the action; this time sucking on them himself.

Leaning down to kiss you, you taste his come in your mouth and he can feel your hips arching up into his, seeking relief. He hasn’t made you come yet and he debates how he wants to do it. Sometimes he uses his mouth - a trick he learned from a girl named Gracie - but tonight; tonight he is gonna use his hands.


	2. The Wagon: Part I

Kneeling between his legs, his thighs cradling your torso, you slide your fingertips underneath the waist band of his trousers, dipping them low enough in the front that you feel the soft hair just above his cock brush your skin.

He sucks a breath in, stiffening along his thigh and reaches down to undo the first button of your blouse, then the second. Pulling the fabric apart, he can see the swell of your breasts over your chemise and he gently palms your breast over the soft fabric, squeezing it lightly when you stroke him through his pants.

The bed of the wagon, a labyrinth of wooden crates, is the perfect spot for the two of you to hide. Helping you climb up into it, you spend warm afternoons in the back, hidden behind the boxes of goods for his homestead. Sometimes he opens the boxes and shows you things: books, photos, his sewing kit once when your scissors broke.

Other times he lays out a thick quilt, pulling it out of chest in the back corner, and spreads you out on it; slowly peeling your clothes away until your body is revealed to him, open for his exploration.

Today, you don’t have the time you need for that but you couldn’t stop thinking about how he touched you in his tent last night; his thick fingers inside you, his heavy weight on top of you and you drag him into the wagon to show him how much you want it; how much you can’t wait for the night to come.

The sun shining down on the taut leather, the inside of the wagon is warm and thick with a soft light and Frankie admires the way you look right now as you work the button of his pants open; your mouth hanging slightly open before you suck your bottom lip in, your tongue dragging along the length of it.

Resting his thumb on it, he pulls your lip down and pushes your shirt open more with his other hand.

“I want to come here”, he says, skating his fingers over your chest, “but I know I probably shouldn’t.”

You kiss the tip of his thumb before you answer. “No”, you reply softly, “you might get some on my shirt and people might see it.”

He remembers when that happened; he felt bad about it; felt bad about how aroused it made him later when he looked at it.

“I’ll come in your mouth then”, he says softly, “but later on, in the tent —“

You nod your head yes, reaching in to pull him out. “Tonight, baby”, you murmur, wrapping your hand around him tightly. “Tonight you can do whatever you want.”


	3. The Wagon: Part II

“ _Frankie_ ”, you softly moan, tipping your head back into the quilt, the floor of the wagon hard under the soft bedding.

“Shhh”, he hushes, sliding two fingers out of you and reaching up to press them against your lips. You immediately take them into your mouth and taste yourself on his calloused digits, sliding your tongue over the pads of them while he groans into your cunt; his mouth giving your clit a lush kiss.

He pulls back, his warm breath gusting over your soaked center. “I’m sorry — _God_ I wish I could hear you right now, but —“

 _No, no; it’s okay_ you sigh when he pulls his fingers from your mouth and he immediately slides them back inside, the two of them a stretch under his warm, wet tongue that laves over your clit. He feels your thighs tense around his head, your back arching up off the floor when you pant _l’m gonna come, please Frankie, I’m gonna come_ and he strokes, strokes, strokes inside of you as deep as he can, curling his thick fingers as the tip of his tongue glides, glides, glides over your clit until you cry out.

Your hands gripping his thick, long locks, your belly trembling, a rush of slick onto his fingers and into his mouth and he slides his fingers out to taste more of it; opening his mouth wide and dipping his tongue into you to gather your come and drink it down.

You both hear her calling your name in the distance but neither of you care, not right now when your body is still taut under his mouth and his hands as he pulls you tighter to his mouth with a groan of relish; his eyes clamped tight as he savors what you’ve given him. He reaches up to your wrist and pulls your hand out of his hair, pressing his fingers inbetween yours as he holds your hand tight, licking you down from your high.

Her call is closer now and he reluctantly pulls back, pressing thick, slow kisses the inside of your thighs, his sparse stubble catching on the delicate skin. Letting your hand go, he sits up on his heels and helps you back into your drawers, sliding the soft material up your legs, up over your ass when you lift it off the quilt and he tugs you up into a sitting position, cradling your face in his hands before giving you a kiss.

His mustache is dark and damp with your slick, his lips tasting like you and you briefly deepen it before pulling away with a pout; you’ve got to go before someone sees you here.

“Tonight”, you say in confirmation, your hands skating down his firm sides, over his hips and down to rest on his thick thighs.

“Tonight”, he nods, leaning in for one last kiss.

He watches you carefully crawl out of the wagon, through the maze of boxes and he smiles at the way you step out into the sunshine; your skin and hair glowing with it while you straighten your clothes.

Looking back at him one last time, you see him smiling at you and you return it shyly; a silly thing to feel when his face was just buried between your legs. A forward jerk of his chin motions you to go, but before you do, you watch him slowly insert the fingers that were just inside of you into his mouth.

He sucks on them, his cheeks hollowed with the motion and a small frown appears on his face, one of pleasure at the taste of you on his hand. You watch for a moment, the ache he just soothed coming back and you think _tonight. You just have to make it till tonight._


	4. New Bed: Part I

His warm, dry, slightly calloused hands covering your eyes, you can hear the smile in his husky voice as he stands behind you. “Are you ready, baby?”

“I’m ready.”

He removes his hands and you gasp at the sight: the finished bed frame, complete with a restuffed mattress and fresh bedding off the line; the old quilt draped on top.

“I love it”, you sigh, sitting down on the edge of it. You beam at him; this hardworking man of yours. “You did such a good job, Francisco.”

Reaching out for him, he stays where he is at for a moment to admire the sight of you: you, on a bed he made, a bed for the both of you, in this home built for both of you. Thinking about all the times he had you in his tent, in the wagon, in the woods; always with the same quilt, always sneaking around; his chest is so full at seeing you here, in this bedroom, finally able to be together at last.

Walking over to your outstretched arms, he gently pushes you back onto the bed and crawls up on top of you; his heavy body pressing you into the bedding.

“I know this isn’t officially our first night in this house”, he says, softly stroking the curve of your cheek with his knuckles, “but it _will_ be our first night in this bed and I don’t intend on letting you sleep.”

He didn’t let you sleep much last night either, with the mattress on the floor in front of the fireplace, but you say nothing, sliding your hands up through his curls and leaning into his touch with a smile.

“I can’t wait.”


	5. New Bed: Part II

Your hands braced on the smooth, sturdy piece of wood running along the head of the bed, you press your thumb into a small indent of a vine; the intricate design running along the beam, wrapping around it. 

“I thought of you just like this when I carved this for you”, he says from behind you, his knees sinking into the soft bedding between yours. Reaching up, he settles his broad, calloused hand between your shoulder blades, resting it there for a moment; his thick cock pressed against the soft plush cheeks of your ass. “I thought about fucking you like this, about your hands needing something to hold on to.”

Grasping himself, he drags the head of his cock up through your folds, gathering slick on the tip of it before resting it against your entrance and you let out a ragged exhale, closing your eyes at the way you clench around nothing, waiting for him. 

“Are you holding on?”, he asks quietly, sliding his hand down your back, rubbing your skin along the way. 

“Yes”, you answer, arching your back a little, just enough to slide just the tip of him in and he groans, thrusting his hips forward and sinking into you. He is always such a delicious stretch, one that you never get used to no matter how many times he’s fucked you. Pulling out and pushing back in, he fills you with his cock over and over and he loves the way you look right now, spread out for him on this bed he made for you, on these sheets you washed for it, on this quilt. 

The quilt; a soft, worn, warm thing - packed in his trunk before embarking west, neatly folded over his precious possessions in the leather case, it now covers his newest precious possession every night when you curl up underneath it, stretched out along his body in this bed he made for the two of you. 

He loved you so thoroughly on it in the back of his wagon, in his tent by the light of a lantern, on the floor of the sitting room before the bed was built and he loves you on it now with you kneeling so pretty for him, taking his cock so good like this. 

Arousal pulling up tight and fast thinking about the way he had you on your back before this, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he licked your cunt until you came with a cry, his strokes become faster, harsher and you tighten your grip on the thick, sturdy beam. 

“Frankie”, you moan, pushing yourself back onto his cock, “I want it harder.”

He groans, grasping your hips in his hands and he pulls you back onto him, shuffling his knees on the soft quilt to get better purchase. 

“Hang on, baby”, he pants and leaning over your body, he drapes his chest over your back, settling his hands over yours on the wooden frame, pressing his fingers between yours. 

You are trapped under the heavy weight of his body, his hands holding you in place, his thighs braced against the back of yours as his cock strokes into you and he stills his hips for a moment before slamming them forward, fucking into you. 

“Like this?”, he asks, his mouth right next to your ear. “Is this hard enough?”, he grunts, fucking into you again and you nod; speechless with how full you feel, how surrounded you are by his cock, his arms, his voice, his body, his love. 

His eyes watch you grip the frame until your knuckles turn white, until your thumb presses into the carving so deep he sees the pad of your finger spill out around it and he fucks into you harder, his own hand tight on the wood. 

He is thankful for the strong, sturdy frame, for the soft quilt, for the sweet smelling sheets, but most of all he is thankful for you; thankful you decided to follow him west, to stay in this house with him and live this life, to let him love you like this in this bed he made for you. 


	6. Winter Storm

You heard the storm was coming when you went into town with Frankie; the general store the place to hear any and all news. The merchant said it was going to be a bad one, that folks to the East had been buried in snow, stuck in their homesteads without a way to travel for supplies and as you fingered the soft calico cloth on the counter, he recommended that the two of you stock up on whatever you need.

Frankie did, your wagon heavy laden with goods as you made your way back home and the two of you could smell it in the crisp air; his curls dancing in the wind as he leaned over to take a lick from your butterscotch stick, the reins loose in his hands as the animals followed the road.

Busy unpacking the wagon, you were absorbed in your task as Frankie gently guided the animals into the barn, making sure they had enough food and water to last. You watched him through the window as he secured a rope to the door of the structure and carefully walked it over to your house, firmly tying it to a special hook made just for this purpose. You had both heard about a family who had lost their father last winter, venturing out into a storm to check on their animals and getting lost in the swirl of white and as you watch him doublecheck the knot, you try not to think about it.

The flakes are already swirling heavy in the air when Frankie stomps in, a frigid rush of air blowing into the small house before he closes the door and while he works on stripping off his white dusted clothing, you kneel by the door and stuff the cracks with spare, thick fabric.

He’s done a good job, like he always does, on building you a safe, warm house and as the two of you watch the snow steadily pile up outside, you are thankful: thankful for this competent, caring man, thankful for the way he takes care of you, thankful for this life and this warm, snug house.

Still, with all the preparation and the well built house and the fire currently crackling in the corner of the room, small creeping gusts of cold air find their way in and so the two of you crawl into bed together, burrowing under the thick quilts.

You could have spent your time mending, or reading, or doing any one of the endless tasks necessary to keep house but Frankie wanted to spend it in bed, curled into your heat, your slick bodies sweating under the heavy layers.

His mouth is a furnace between your thighs, a blazing liquid heat as he licks into you and you want to laugh at the way he is completely hidden under the blankets right now but there is nothing funny about the way the tip of his tongue glides over your clit until you’re shaking, until your hands find his damp hair and tug as he reaches up to stroke the peak of your breast, his low groan filling your core.

It’s already so dark under the blanket, he already can’t see anything but when you come, clamping your thighs tight to his cheeks, he closes his eyes to focus on the slick dripping out of you into his mouth, on the way he is surrounded by your soft skin and your delicious smell, on the muffled moans he hears above him.

Slowly crawling out from under the blanket, you laugh breathlessly as his flushed face appears, his cheeks pink over his soft beard, his dark curls mussed and stuck to the sweaty skin around his hairline and when he comes up to kiss you, you taste yourself on his lips.

Stretching out behind you, he pulls you tight to his lap, covering your back with the solid warm wall of his chest and you can feel the heft of his cock between your thighs as he scoots closer.

“Are you warm enough, baby?”, he murmurs in your ear, his hand reaching down between the two of you to line himself up. Sinking in with a stretch and a low groan, he tells you that he is cold, that he needs you to warm him up, that he needs your wet cunt to squeeze him tight and his heavy arm drapes over your hip, his hand finding its way between your folds.

Brushing his fingers over your clit, he grinds himself into you and you reach back to grab his ass, pulling him deeper inside. Sweat pools between your bodies and he licks it from your skin; his warm, wet tongue dipping into the hollow below your ear when he tells you _he’s gonna fuck you all night, that he’s gonna make sure you stay nice and warm and full of him, that he’s gonna fill you up so you’re warm inside too_ and you are soaking his lap with a hot leak of slick when he bites down on your shoulder and presses down on your clit.

“I think you need more”, his husky voice stoking the fire inside you, “Do you need it harder, baby?”

 _I do, I do_ you moan and he pulls his hand away from your clit, his thick fingers glistening with slick as he reaches up to push them into your mouth. He groans at the way you suck them, at the way your tongue dances and glides over the calloused pads and he picks up his pace, snapping his hips into you from behind.

“Is this hard enough?”, he asks, his voice a tight strain and you can’t answer with his fingers in your mouth, but you hum around them and rock your hips back in encouragement. Pulling on your jaw for leverage, he fucks into you and when he comes it’s loud; his groan drowning out the howling wind outside.

His damp forehead rests between your shoulder blades for a moment as he catches his breath and you kiss his fingers, one by one, waiting for him. Sliding out of you with a hitch in his breath, he kisses the firm line of your shoulder, the soft muscle of your arm and he tells you he’s not nearly done with you yet, his voice getting quieter and quieter as he slides back under the blanket.

Pulling your thighs apart, his broad shoulders push them open wider as he settles between your legs and you can just see the top of a snow pile creeping up the bottom of your window before you close your eyes; his tongue gathering up the milky liquid between your thighs with a contented hum.


	7. Fourth of July

The afternoon is hotter than you thought it would be and while you are thankful for the light fabric of your dress and the way it leaves your shoulders exposed, you worry that you will be burned by the end of the day.

Still, a burn would be worth the sight in front of you right now: your husband, his fine collared shirt soaked down the middle of his back, the fabric dark with sweat where his suspenders press over it and you squirm in your seat on the wooden bench at the way his body is working right now; one in a row of men competing in log chopping contest.

Frankie’s hair is plastered against his brow, the dark locks curling in the heat around his head and you wish you could reach out and push it away from his eyes and to the side, a motion he frequently does while you watch.

His strong hands grip the axe tight, his forearms taut with tension, his broad shoulders straining under his shirt as he raises his arms with every swing, and you can see every muscle in his back through the thin material, the lean lines of them bunching and flexing. Glancing at the other ladies who sit around you, you notice more than a few of them looking at your husband and you feel a fierce pride in knowing that he is yours, that only you know what that back looks like under that shirt.

You can hear a soft grunt with every one of his hard swings downward and you press your thighs together under your petticoats at the similarity between the sound he is making right now and the sound he makes when he thrusts into you in your bed, or in the kitchen, or sometimes in the barn.

A few more solid chops and when his log splits cleanly in half, he turns to face you in his victory. Finding you in the crowd, he smiles, his brown eyes shining bright in the afternoon sun and you leap to your feet, clapping louder than anyone else in the stands.

–

His mouth is busy against yours when you find a shaded spot behind the general store for him to change and you are trying to get him to put a different shirt on, the other one soaked with sweat and now laying on the grass, but he ignores the clean one in your hand when he backs you into the wall of the building.

His flushed body is tight against yours, his mouth now moving along the hot skin of your exposed shoulder and you try to keep an eye out for people, resisting the urge to give into his covetous touches.

“Frankie”, you softly plead, tilting your head back into the hard siding, making room for him to press his mouth against your throat, “You should put this shirt on. I need to go out there – the pie contest is going to start any minute.”

He hums against your skin, his hands circling your waist before sliding down to rest on your hips and he is frustrated with how little he can _feel_ right now, with your body covered in so many layers. Still, he can’t too mad with how beautiful you look today, the white fabric of the fancy new dress glowing in the sun and he felt proud to walk into town with you on his arms – he always does, but even more so when he saw other men admiring you from afar.

Pulling back, his strong arms now brace themselves on the building as he leans in to kiss you one last time and you smile into it, his mouth delicately catching against yours before you slide out from underneath him. 

“Hurry up”, you softly scold, holding out the shirt and watching him take it. “I want to see the look on Harriet Oleson’s face when I beat her.”

–

Scraping the last bit of pie from his plate and spooning it into his mouth, you laugh at the way he is dramatic about it, his hum of contentment loud as he closes his eyes in relish.

“Delicious pie, blue-ribbon-winning Mrs. Morales”, he murmurs against your lips and you can taste the cherry syrup on his lips and on his tongue, when it brushes against yours.

“Thank you”, you say shyly, reaching to rub a spot of red from the corner of his mouth and he watches as you suck on your thumb, licking the sticky sugar off.

The other families surrounding you, their blankets spread over the grass as they unpack their picnic baskets and eat with a chatter, the two of you can’t be too bold; too many older and younger eyes present.

Still, it doesn’t stop Frankie’s eyes from lingering on the rounds of your shoulders, the line of your neck as you bend over the wicker picnic basket and he is thankful that the day is almost done, ready to be home alone with you; ready to get you out of that dress.

“Are you still hungry?”, you ask, pulling out a wrapped hunk of cheese and when he doesn’t answer you, you look up at him. He _is_ hungry, his dark eyes watching you, but you can tell it’s not for something that you have packed in your basket.

“Would you like some more food?”, you clarify with a teasing lilt and his cheeks stretch with a smile at being caught out.

“No, thank you”, he answers, leaning back on his hands with a wink.

–

Finally you are home and in your bedroom, standing between his knees as he sits on the bed and his broad hands circle your waist again, only this time they can feel the soft give of your body, the heat of it leeching through your chemise.

He can see right through the thin material with the way the candles in the room light up the fabric and his gaze wanders over the weight of your breasts, the dark vee between your legs and he pulls you closer, sliding the tip his nose over the hardened bud of your nipple.

“Are you hungry, Francisco?”, you murmur softly, and he looks up at you; his eyes black in the dim room.

“Yes”, he breathes, already pulling your shift up and you help him, his hand now busy between your legs.

Dipping his fingers into you, he gathers your slick on the pads of them and brings them to his mouth; the same sound of relish from when he ate your pie earlier and hot slick gathers inside you at the sound. He drags his wet fingers back through your folds, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh when you plant your foot on the edge of the mattress next to him and when he pushes them inside of you, you curl into the touch, your fingers digging into the firm muscle of his shoulders.

The face you’re making right now was the one he thought of all day, from the moment he helped you put on your new dress, and his cock is resting heavy and hard between his thighs, the tip of it leaking at how wet you are, at the way your mouth has dropped open in a soft pant as you beg for more.

Sliding his fingers out of you, he lies back on the bed and you kneel between his legs, the sparse hair gliding under your palms as your hands gently push them open wider. He can feel the soft skin of your breasts brush against the inside of his thighs when you scoot close and he fists the bedding tight in his hand when you put him in your mouth, your tongue swirling wetly around the tip of him.

A salty spurt drips over your tongue when you keep going and you can feel the tension in his thighs as he flexes his hips off the bed, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. The saliva that drips past your lips helps your hand move smoothly over him and he begs you with a broken moan _to please stop; please come up and sit on my face_.

You crawl up, up, up until your thighs straddle his head and this is his favorite, when you rest the weight of your body on his face, when you let him lick into you like this. Opening your legs wider, you roll your hips over his mouth and his hands curl over the tops of your thighs, holding you tight in place when he laves at your cunt until you come.

He’s not done, he made you stop sucking on him so he could draw this out as long as possible and guiding you onto your back, he settles himself between your legs, his cock resting thick and blunt against your entrance before pushing in.

You cry out at the way it fills you, the tip of it stroking against something deep inside and his lips are warm and delicate against your shoulder when he tells you how good you feel, how wet you are, how tight.

“Did you want this when you watched me today?”, he asks you; the image of your face as he looked at you in the stands today filling his mind, his soft grunts filling the room, “Did you think about how much you wanted to fuck me?”

 _Yes, yes Frankie_ you moan, and he strokes into you harder, his grip on your hip and on the nape of your neck tightening.

“Tell me”, he groans, your cunt squeezing him tight at the sound, “Tell me how much you wanted it. How good it feels.”

“ _I wanted it_ ”, your strained pleads making him ache. “All those women wanted to fuck you today, but they can’t, because you’re mine.”

“I am” he pants, “I _am_ yours and only I –“, a loud groan when reach down to cup his ass, pulling him deeper, “ – only I get to fuck you like this; only I know how wet your cunt gets right before you come.”

You do it, your cunt flooding when you clench down on him and he _almost_ comes too, but he catches himself just in time because that’s not what he wants. Stroking you through your release, he waits until you whimper with oversensitivity and then he pulls out of you, crawling up your body like you did earlier for him.

Bracing himself on the wooden beam of the bed frame with his knees sinking into the soft mattress, it only takes a few quick strokes until he comes – the milky liquid splashing on your chest, into the dip of your throat – and he groans in relief at finally doing what he’s wanted to do all day; the exposed skin over your neckline looking so soft and warm under the afternoon sun, tasting so sweet as he kissed it behind the general store.

His hot breath ghosts over your sweaty skin when he bends to dip his tongue into the puddle of it, licking it into his mouth and you push your fingers through his thick hair, brushing it back and to the side.

“You looked so beautiful today”, he mumbles against your chest, his mouth now moving down to draw the peak of your breast into it.

You smile at his sweet compliment, savoring the night breeze that is gently flowing in through the open window, the air cool against your hot skin. He kisses down your torso, his moustache a tickle against your belly, his teeth nipping at your hip before running the flat of his tongue over the bone and your legs drop open wider, giving him space between them.

You are tired, worn out from the hot day and the long walk into town and the demanding way Frankie loves you and your eyes are sliding shut when you watch the candle flicker before it goes out; Frankie’s mouth settling on you again.


	8. The Cradle

The smooth, dry wood sliding under his calloused hands, Frankie bends over his task with a frown of concentration, his hand gripping the small piece of lumber tight while the other digs his tool into it; the curled shavings dropping onto the floor of the barn between his feet.

The rest of the cradle is set to the side of him; this last piece in his hands. He wants to surprise you with it, wants to see your face light up with that smile he loves so much, so he has been working on it in secret during your afternoon naps.

Carving a delicate vine into the wood, one that matches the design on your bed, he thinks about you in the house right now, sleeping.

You’ve been more tired lately, sleeping well past dawn and again in the late afternoon. It’s his favorite, to turn to you in bed just as the sun breaks through the window, to admire the way it streams over your features, shining on your hair.

You sleep so deeply that he’s able to stroke your temple with his thumb, able to trace the delicate line of your jaw with his fingers, even able to press his lush lips against yours for a moment before he rises; though sometimes that last one wakes you and then you pull him to you, sleepily cradling is face in your hands as you kiss him again.

He thinks about the way your belly is only just beginning to show, the slight swell visible now to the naked eye and as he gently blows on the wood, clearing the fine dust out of the well of the carving, he feels an ache: both in his chest, at how proud he is to see you swollen with his child and also in his cock, thinking about how you got that way.

He thinks about the fine sheen of sweat that made your skin glow in the wagon, or in his tent at night as you traveled west with him and the same dappled shine of it in front of the fireplace of your new home, as he spread you out on the floor before you had a bed of your own and again when he made the bed, this time your damp skin shining in the light of the early morning sun.

The way you gripped him so tight, with your hands on his backside to pull him deep, with your legs around his waist to keep him there, with your cunt right before you came; begging him to fill you up, your mouth open and panting as he moved above you, inside of you.

He couldn’t seem to get enough of you, even when the days were long and filled with the exhausting activities of maintaining your land, your animals, your home. You were just as eager, always ready to set aside your task and open your mouth and your arms and your legs to him, pulling him close and kissing him breathless; your hands cupping his face, the smooth palms sometimes coated in flour or in dirt.

He has filled you so many times, flooded your cunt with his come in hopes that it would stick, always pushing deep inside of you with a tight stretch and sometimes he stayed that way, sleeping with his cock buried in your warmth, keeping his seed stuffed inside.

He thinks about before you were supposed to be sharing a bed, how he liked to come on your chest, or in your mouth, sometimes frantically pulling out to splash on your hip if he waited too long but now he can fill you as many times as he wants to; your warm, wet cunt taking it all.

Finally done with the carving, he sets down his tool and carefully inspects the piece of wood, turning it in his hands and tilting it into the sun to check for any spots he missed. Finding none, he begins to assemble the pieces, tightly fitting the them together.

When he is done, he admires the tiny cradle, gently rocking it to make sure the motion is smooth before standing up with a stretch. Climbing the ladder with it, he hides it in the loft and when he comes back down, he peers up to make sure you can’t see it from the floor of the barn.

Walking towards the house, the gentle breeze of the late summer day makes his curls ruffle in the wind. He is going to come wake you up now, you’ve asked him not to let you sleep too late and as he quietly enters the house, he thinks about how he should do it.

His hands or his mouth, he debates, gently toeing off his boots and he decides on his mouth; thinking about how he loves to give the bottom of your belly open mouthed kisses, loves to feel the firm skin of it under his broad hands, loves to taste your cunt as he palms the swell of your bump.

Standing at the threshold of your bedroom, he looks at you: curled on your side, your arms wrapped tight around his pillow, your face pressed into it and he quietly gets undressed before coming to join you; his hands dragging your chemise up, sliding between your thighs as he kisses your soft cheek, the tip of your nose, your sweet mouth.

“Wake up, baby”, he whispers, his lips brushing against yours. “It’s time to get up.”


	9. Bad Day

He noticed little things all day – the deep sigh you made when you climbed out of bed, your unusual quiet during lunch, the way you stared out into the field while gardening; your face looking like it would crumble any moment.

He knows you well enough by now to recognize when you’re having a bad day and he skates around the edges of you; his hand brushing against your back in the kitchen as you knead bread, doing the chores he knows you dislike the most, bringing you a dipper of water in the garden that you gratefully accept.

The tub is big and heavy, something that you splurged on when you bought the house and he fills it almost to the top; one pot of steaming water after another until it’s ready for the cold to bring it back down. Helping you step into it, he grabs a stool and sits on the side, his hands deftly rolling his shirt sleeves up and he motions for you to lean back.

His thick fingers massage against your scalp, drifting down to the nape of your neck, the rounds of your shoulders and you could cry it feels so good; the room dim and silent save for the quiet slosh of the water; the crackling of the fire.

He hands you the soap – the special kind he told you to splurge on at the general store last week, the one with flower petals pressed into the bar – and when you are done using it, you lean back into the tub, submerging your body in the water up to your chin.

“Feel better?”, he asks quietly, his warm brown eyes crinkling with a small smile as he leans on the rim of the tub and you sit up, cupping his face with your wet hands to bring him in for a kiss. He didn’t have to do this for you; bucket after bucket of water warmed, taking time from his chores and his duties to give you this small luxury and you deepen the kiss in thanks; your sweet breath exhaling into his mouth.

The tension finally gone from your body, he helps you dry off, handing you your softest nightgown before taking his clothes off and climbing into bed with you. He holds you close, his arm a heavy band around your torso, his chin tucked over your shoulder.

You lean into the comforting rise and fall of his chest, your fingers tracing the dips of his knuckles, his warm, solid body enveloping yours from behind.

His touch is gentle when he drags the hem of your nightgown up over your thighs, up over your hips and you can feel the light brush of his mouth against the back of your neck when he tells you how much he loves you; the words blurred as his lips catch on your skin.

You are bare underneath the nightgown, your plush, soft skin pressing against his lap as his hand glides up, up underneath the soft gown, coming to rest possessively on your breast. The pads of his fingers stroking the petal soft skin on the underside of it, you can feel the heft of him twitch between your legs, but he waits until you say it’s okay before he does anything.

Fitting himself tight along the back of your body, his sturdy thighs pressed against the back of yours, he slides into your slick warmth with a stretch, his fingers still stroking the velvet skin, occasionally brushing over the hardened peak of your breast and when you turn your head to kiss him, it’s a soft, lingering press of your mouths together; his tongue barely a touch against yours before you open up for him.

Sliding your hand up through his soft curls, you pull him closer to you, wanting more from him and when he asks you if he should finally move, you whisper _yes; yes Frankie,_ _please_ against his sweet mouth.


End file.
